• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Waboombas stopped before him on the upper landing, took the towel he offered and brushed a fluorescent, painted fingernail across the poor old man’s cheek as she jogged off, bouncily, down the hall to where he had indicated a pre-warmed shower awaited her. It wasn’t the only thing already turned on. Once she was out of sight, his breath exhaled, his knees buckled, and he had to steady himself on the banister. I laughed so hard I dropped a very heavy suitcase on my foot.

Outside, we finished loading the Beemer. With Ms. Waboombas still close enough at only two floors away to make me jumpy, I couldn’t help thinking that this is what my life could have been like had things continued with Ms. Nuckeby. She obviously had similar boundary issues to Waboombas, and would surely have devolved, eventually, into similar types of outrageous public behavior.

I shook my head. What a narrow escape I’d made. As fun and tingly as it might be in a darkened closet, the thrill would, no doubt, fade very rapidly in the bright light of life’s foyer. I realized I might actually have to thank Morgan for bringing Ms. Waboombas along, if for no other reason than that fortuitous lesson learned.

I sighed. Suddenly, I felt very relieved to be saddled with Mindie. She was publicly cold, deeply reserved, and devoutly prudish. A real catch.

As Morgan and I packed, gravel crunched behind us in the driveway and, as if on cue, we turned to see Mindie’s car driving our way.

What an odd coincidence. What was she doing here?

I paused.

I remembered.

I slapped myself for being an idiot.

Dear, God, I was supposed to be going to that damned chapel with Mindie, and Pastor Winterly today! The same day I was supposed to be driving down to the comics convention! The same day Wendy Waboombas was naked all over my house!

Damn my college-destroyed brain cells! The warnings on alcohol bottles should be in much larger type!

As Mindie’s car (complete with Mindie, and pastor figures included) drove toward me, I fidgeted nervously, trying to put on a false air of confidence that said loudly and clearly, ‘there isn’t any naked stripper in my shower.’ The car crunched to a stop on the gravel driveway beside me, and Mindie essentially burst from within, vibrant, full of life, and ready to chastise me for—I don’t know—the rising of the sun probably. She wore a very matronly outfit that did its level best to hide the gifts God had lavished upon her and strained at the seams with the effort. You could practically hear the stitching screaming for release from their tight-fitting agonies like that creepy little man-bug at the end of The Fly. The original one with Vincent Price.

“What’s he still doing here?” she asked, waving dismissively at Morgan.

“Well,” I laughed, “you’re not going to believe this, but…”

“He’s not coming with us?” she said, not so much a question as a declaration of fact with an accidental question mark at the end.

“No, he’s not actually coming with us…”

“So, you did invite Mindie,” Morgan said enthusiastically. “Perfect.”

He rubbed his hands together, obviously believing this greatly improved his chances with Ms. Waboombas—not understanding that simply having an active bank account greatly improved his chances with Ms. Waboombas.

“What,” Mindie asked, her voice rising toward shrill, “is he talking about?”

“You see,” I laughed again, “there’s a really funny story here…”

“Funny, ‘Ha Ha’, or funny, ‘no sex on our wedding night?’” Mindie asked, apparently sussing things out at a much faster rate than I gave her credit for.

“Mindie… ” I said, sounding upsettingly like I was about to begin begging. I was. But I didn’t want to sound like I was.

“You got any bags?” Morgan asked her, not helping in the slightest.

“Bags?” Mindie asked. It was amazing how she could—with a small adjustment in tonal inflection—make you feel as if you smelled like old, wet goat fur.

“Yeah,” Morgan said, beginning to recoil. “Aren’t you—staying the whole